


You wanna play that game?

by skinnylittlered



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Actor Tom Hiddleston, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Dialogue, Drinking, F/M, Falling In Love, First Love, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hangover, Heavy Angst, Heavy Drinking, In Character, Jealousy, Long-Distance Friendship, Major Original Character(s), McDonald's, Monopoly (Board Game), Mother-Daughter Relationship, Old Friends, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Original Character, Phone Calls & Telephones, Puppy Love, Songfic, Time Skips, Young Tom Hiddleston
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5871007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling for a friend is always hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Monopoly night has been, especially back in the day, when our much unburdened schedules permitted for it to be so, a permanent fixture in our routines, with a set date, time, and etiquette, and only accessible to a very limited group of intimately close acquaintances, which pretty much determined it to be the same handful of individuals every time it occurred, that is me, Tom, Cara, Tyler, and Suzanne, pals since the beginning of days (the days when the mandatory drinks were not even a fully formed concept in our juvenile minds), come hell and high water, indivisible in both good and bad. Save for that time C and Sue both exceeded their limit of alcoholic intake and, all sense of common propriety gone to the devil, somehow ended up shamelessly snogging on Tyler’s living room floor, under our scrutinising eyes (we, too, were drunk, and especially entertained by the whole scene unfolding so close to us), which was, decidedly, not that good of a move on either part, as, for the subsequent couple of months, nearly palpable awkwardness made it so that they never inhabited one room at the same time, until, as grownups would do, figured the only way of salvaging years of friendship was to directly confront the issue, which apparently entailed them orally getting each other off – at the same time! – and giving into their attraction and whatnot. They are soon celebrating their fifth anniversary, and that is exactly why, as the planets perhaps aligned again in a while too long for it to be acceptable, we, the old group, gathered once more in complete, original form, and, under the excuse of celebrating such an important milestone in our friends’ relationship, got pissed over an integrity-obliterating game of Monopoly.

It’s morning when I stir awake, holding an obliviously snoring Tyler in my arms. Well, at least I assume it’s morning, as there’s not one perfectly reliable indicator of the time in the room (there’s no phone in my reach, and neither I nor my friend are wearing any watches) other than my ability to approximately guess the moment of day by looking out the window; the sunlight is too raw – it can’t be earlier than ten. Gently shifting my arm from underneath the unconscious body of the man in my vicinity, I try to bring myself to a vertical position without causing too much commotion, which turns out to be especially hard with the back of my head pulsing with blinding pain and my stomach grumbling uncomfortably in protest of last night’s acidic intake, soon realising that I have got roughly half a minute to get to the bathroom, lest I regurgitate each and every last bit of it on the happy couple’s very expensive lacquered parquet, and perilously close to Tyler’s face, too. Thankfully, the manic blur of the next few seconds finalises with me hunched over and heaving into the toilet, knees trembling and throat burning, ironically, in very similar manner to how it did yesterday as I was doing tequila shots one after the other, as if I were back in my early twenties, when shit like a hangover couldn’t get to me. As it usually happens with things like these, I obviously didn’t think it through, because, a decade later, I am forced to find over and over again that it most certainly _can_ and it implacably _does_ , regardless of how deep in denial I might be when hard liquor is handed to me. As I clear my throat and spit one last time, Tom’s voice, hoarse and thick, echoes my thoughts on point, as if he, himself, had the same merciless epiphany, exactly in the same way I just have.

“We’re not all that young anymore, huh?”

I groan, not wanting to open my mouth before thoroughly rinsing it, and flush.

“Sorry for not helping you out there, love, but I was just done and still feeling a bit squeamish.”

Huh, what do you know, maybe he _has_.

“It’s okay,” I exhale, after all but abusing the mouthwash in the counter above the sink, sitting myself next to him on the edge of the bathtub. “You hanging in there?”

“Barely,” he chuckles lowly, a bittersweet sound from deep in his chest, then swiftly places his palm over his stomach, winching. “I probably shouldn’t do too much of that.”

“Yeah, you probably shouldn’t.”

A long pause follows, in which only our collective ragged breathing can be heard, ample sounds, magnified by the acoustics of the room, colliding with the marble surfaces, filling the space. It’s a calming rhythm, dulling the aches in my body, as I’m focusing only on filling and emptying my lungs. It seems not to have such a therapeutic effect on Tom, as, before long, he’s kneeling in front of the porcelain vessel, producing the most disturbing of sounds and smells (I don’t even want to picture the visuals he’s getting), as I resume my measured breathing – three beats in my throat, six in my stomach, three in my lower abdomen, release in the same manner, repeat – successfully avoiding paying too much attention to the ordeal taking place in front of me. When he’s done, he swiftly stands, as if rejuvenated.

“Fuck, I needed to get that out of me.”

“Sounded like you exorcised a demon, Hiddleston.”

“Felt like it, too.”

A loud grumble is heard in the midst of his reply.

“Now I’m hungry,” he sheepishly observes, scratching the back of his head.

 

***

 

We gather our things and depart from C and Sue’s place, bidding our farewells and making promises of more subdued gatherings to come (“perhaps over tea, sometime?”), as the rest of the group is coming to their senses, and, hopping into my car – which, considering the short walking distance from his place to mine, has served as our means of getting there the previous evening – we decide on stopping by a McDonald’s to fill up on quasi-nutritious food supplies and half-decent coffee. We’re both fully aware tea is nowhere near happening any time in the foreseeable future, not with his filming and his promotional tours, not with the hordes of fans demanding his attention and always wanting more of it, regardless of how much they get. He’s leaving soon, to heaven knows where, to return heaven knows when, leaving all things London, other than his accent and his conduct, behind, and I can’t seem to be able to halt the fervent simmering of resentment from building. It’s unfair that they get so much of him, all the time. It’s unfair that they’re constantly dissatisfied with how much they’re getting. It’s unfair that there’s almost nothing left for his family, his friends, _me_.

“Where are you?”

“Hmmm…?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m here.”

My dry reply incites an incredulous snort.

“You know that’s not what I meant, Andrea. Where are you? You’ve been awfully un-talkative this morning. Yesterday, too. Actually, love, you’ve been rather quiet ever since you picked me up from the airport last week.”

He calls me “love”. Tom’s pet name of choice for me, for whenever the situation is not of such nature that he feels like he ought to speak my name, he calls me “love”. He’s picked it up while attending Eton – because all the cool guys used such sobriquets to denominate the most beloved females in their lives that were not family, and told me that, until he found his one true love I was to be his – and inaugurated the custom, much to my delighted surprise, during one of our very frequent calls, with decisive firmness, as if I was to be his love whether I liked it or not.

I wish I was his love.

“Maybe I’ve run out of things to say,” I challenge, eyebrow arched, but keeping my eyes on the road.

To this, he lets out a hearty laugh.

“ ‘Run out of things to say’? _You_?!”

“You seem profusely disbelieving of my statement, my dear friend. I must say I am offended.”

My mocking words only intensify his laughter and, before he can gather his bearings and come up with a response, I park the car in front of his house. Seeing that the engine is still running, he looks at me dubiously.

“What, are you so offended that you’re not coming up?”

I cross my arms and turn my head away from him.

“Why, would that be so unexpected, considering your uncouth manner towards me today?”

“Ah, blasted, I shall have to bribe my way back into your good graces, my fair lady.”

“How do you, if I may ask, plan on doing that, my valiant gentleman?”

And, as he leans into me, close so that he can whisper in my ear, my body opens and petrifies, all at the same time, my synapses snapping apart by the thousands whenever his warm breath hits the back of my neck. It is in that moment, as never before, that I am completely bereft of any kind of cognitive inflexion, deprived of whatever interior monologue it is that differentiates us from other species, it is in that moment that, letting the utter ridiculousness of the situation fly past me completely, I find my indispensables soaked at hearing the words “chicken nuggets” so softly spoken to me that I barely hear them over the sound of the paper bag as he brings it near my face for comical emphasis of his action.

I am lost.

“Now,” he concludes, pulling away from me. “Get your ass out of the car and into my house. We’ve got some serious eating to do.”

 

***

He is everywhere.

The book-lined shelves, the posters on the walls, the awards, the minimalist design of the whole place. The _smell_. The smell of my childhood, summer evenings spent watching Disney movies with him and his sisters in his room back at his parents’ house, nibbling on homemade snacks his mother put together for us. Falling asleep, as I still do, before the movie’s end and waking up the next day, in a contented daze, next to his soundly sleeping form.

We eat in the living-room, directly out of the bags, fighting over french fries and who gets to hold the remote, and, for a while, it’s just as it used to be, easy, natural, only that we’re both nearing our forties rather than our double-digits. It’s warm and fuzzy, it’s waking up to your best friend (who just so happens to also be the boy you like), on a sunny Sunday morning, to the light scent of pancakes being made rejoicing in the fact that there’s no school tomorrow because “Tom, I’d forgot it’s summer vacation – you’re not going away anymore!”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Back to work, huh?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh, come on, you love your job. And you love making those little hiddlestoners of yours kneel,” I snicker, slapping his knee good naturedly.

“For heaven’s sake, Andrea, it’s a great speech. It’s only your bias towards comic book movies and my fans that hinders you from seeing that.”

“Kneel? _Kneel_?”

“You wanna play that game?”

“Bring it on, big shot.”

He hauls us on our feet and proceeds reciting his lines, as he normally does when I challenge the quality of his part in the Marvel franchise. But this time, it’s different.

“ _Is this not your natural state_?”

This time he’s not hiding behind Loki.

“ _It’s the unspoken truth of humanity_.”

This time it’s him that speaks to me.

“ _That you crave subjugation_.”

This time it’s Tom.

“ _Kneel_.”

I am down on my knees holding my head in my palms as I cry my sorrows at his feet, unable to hold back anymore.

“I fucking love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was about time that I did one of those someone-falls-in-love-with-their-best-friend, huh?
> 
> Lemme begin by saying hi and thank you to the new followers, @thekidsasquare, @sarahmarie-poetry, aaaaannd @heyepic. Many thanks for the follow, you guys, hope you have a fun ride.
> 
> Oooookaaaaayyy, let’s get into this. I said that I was out of the fandom et al, but now I’m updating. Well, long story short, I was cleaning my “Likes” and came across this gifset of Mr. Hiddleston and I fucking had to, especially as I haven’t written anything in a long time, so, at this point, I’ll kind of take whatever I can’t get. I don’t know how this is going to go, whether I’m back to uploading regularly of it was just a one time thing, I’m still pissed off with what’s going on in the fandom, but I guess if I’m to write and update, I’ll just stay away from the whole drama (as I should’ve done in the first place, really) and just do my thing. I thought writing would become dull and after all that stuff, but I had fun doing this little thing (which is, by the way, the longest piece of fanfic I’ve ever written, lemme just bask in that for a second), so idk. I really don’t know.
> 
> Thanks for reading, lovelies, and you stay golden! *hands out extra-large pieces of cake, because I turned twenty last week and I’m still a bit awed*


	2. Chapter 2

“ _So, how’s everything going?_ ”

“Fine, thanks.”

“ _Good, good._ ”

“How’s Germany?”

“ _Oh, fantastic!_ ”

“You’re having a good time, huh?”

“ _The best. We must come together, sometime._ ”

“Yeah.”

“ _Not kidding. They have some really fantastic cuisine, too! Between you and me, I never thought I’d ever be so much into wiener._ ”

“…hilarious.”

“ _Oh, come on. It was at least a little bit funny. Give me some credit here, love_.”

“Mhm.”

“ _You sound a bit blue. Everything okay?_ ”

“Yeah. Just tired. Long day at work, you know the drill.”

 

***

 

_Is this not your natural state?_

I didn’t know it had a name at first.

To an eight year old, seeing one’s friends is always, without one single exception, a joy in itself. To an eight year old, seeing one’s friends is unhindered excitement, hours of liberated expression, a lifetime of glee and sorrow, freedom of voluntary responsibilities like having offspring, a spouse, and a job, acquiring and consummating them all in the span of a few hours, severing ties with companions over the most trivial of affairs, only to mend them when the common enemy of opposing parental force reveals itself with thoughts of cutting the fun short in mind.

Quite obviously, an eight year old has only very little knowledge of the names of many things in the world either around them or inside them, so when first confronted with the unexplainable quivering elation that takes over the whole body when coming into one that they love, it soon becomes an entire realm of possible exploration concretised in numerous sequences of endlessly branching interrogations and only very few answers to be granted in return.

Tom was elation. Tom was the febrile spring in my step.

I was collapsing.

 

***

 

“ _So, how’s everything going?_ ”

“Mhm.”

“ _‘Mhm’? Everything’s going ‘mhm’? Are you okay, love?_ ”

“Mhm.”

“ _Andrea?_ ”

“Yes, Tom?”

“ _Why aren’t you talking to me?_ ”

“Because it’s bloody four o’clock in the morning, that’s why I’m not talking to you, Tom.”

“ _No, you’re not talking to me. In general, that is._ ”

“Tom, for the love of god, I was sleeping.”

“ _But that’s never been a problem before…_ ”

“Well, it is now.”

“ _Oh…_ ”

“Anyway. How’s… Where are you?”

“ _Sydney._ ”

“How’s Sydney?”

“Absolutely delightful. Let me tell you, I was with Chris…”

 

***

 

_It’s the unspoken truth of humanity._

I was fifteen, the summer when Aerosmith’s _I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing_ first aired. Tom was in Scotland with his sisters, visiting his father and grandparents, and I was growing irritatingly torpid, the two Harry Potter books, while thoroughly entertaining the first couple of readings, laying pathetically dismissed on the floor next to the bed, well-loved and catching the dust, just not doing it for me anymore.

The rock ballad blaring in the kitchen as my mother was manifesting one of her culinary avant-gardist whims which was, ultimately, supposed to serve as a nutritious meal for her still growing adolescent daughter and her round-the-clock working husband, but hardly ever accomplished the task – my father would always take me for a walk afterwards and drive straight to a fast food of my choice, in an attempt to “ _reduce the childhood trauma that would probably haunt you for the rest of your life_ ”, as he put it – hit home right away, because, as chance would have it, I could stay awake just to hear Tom breathing, too. It felt like the world was ending and I couldn’t get enough of him until it was all over.

“Didn’t know you liked Aerosmith that much.”

“Huh?”

“You’re big on Aerosmith?”

“Well, dad blasts it in the car all the time, they grew on me. But this song is really good.”

My mother smiled and with a wistful “ _it makes me think of your father_ ”, mumbled low enough that I figured it wasn’t really for me to hear, then returned to her cooking.

And so, in the form of what instantly became a household name for love songs all over the world, my lifelong questions finally had answers.

I was in love.

I was collapsing.

 

***

 

“ _What’s cookin’, good lookin’?_ ”

“Your Southern drawl sounds fantastic, Tom, but this isn’t a good time.”

“ _Oh. Okay. When’s a good time, then?_ ”

“I don’t know, I’ll just get back to you, okay?”

“ _Yeah._ ”

 

*

 

“ _You said you’d call._ ”

“Ah, bollocks, I forgot. I’m sorry, honey, but things are absolutely hectic in London. It’s like an understaffed Emergency Room after a major league soccer game over here.”

“ _Football._ ”

“Piss off. Anyway, where are you? How’ve you been?”

“ _Russia. I’m a bit tired, but fine. You never forget to call._ ”

“Oh, Russia! It must be lovely over there! Have you been to the Tolstoy museum yet?”

“ _I’m in Sankt Petersburg, the Tolstoy museum is in Moscow. Russia is fine. What the hell is going on?_ ”

“What a shame, you would’ve probably loved it.”

“ _Are you dying?_ ”

“What the fuck, no!”

“ _Are you terminally ill?_ ”

“Tom, stop, I’m fine.”

“ _No, you’re weird. You’ve been all morose and easily irritable for the last month, and now you’re downright frenzied to talk about Tolstoy when I‘m trying to have a conversation about us. So I’m going to ask once more, and, please, this time answer me – what’s going on?_ ”

“I miss you. I’m upset. And also seriously busy, but mostly upset. I’m sorry I’ve been weird.”

“ _Oh, my sweet, sweet love…_ ”

***

 

_That you crave subjugation._

The first time he called me “darling” I cried for a week.

We were long past the Eton days, when the moniker actually bore any significance, and Tom had already had lovers enough for the uncomfortable weight in my chest I got when I first saw him hold hands with a girl constituting a romantic interest to be barely noticeable anymore. Very much there, yes, but more akin to white noise, rather than the main event itself. I had taken lovers, too. Evidently, they were never as handsome as Tom, never as smart, or well mannered, never looked as good as Tom did in a suit, but I figured there would have to be one, at some point, who would meet all the criteria that would make him perfectly suitable for the job. I would move on, I would fall out of love. Time heals the wounds, life goes on. He would always be my friend, just like in the old days – Hiddleston and Campbell, the brit and the yank, indivisible, taking the world by its horns, just as it should be.

The girl was beautiful and well bred. She was witty, well-read and made him laugh, and her clothing was always highly fashionable, but tastefully toned down in the spirit of sensible modesty, unlike me, who would, on occasion sport neon sneakers, black lipstick, and other, some would say _risqué,_ outfit elements. We got along great and I hated her for it. They had been together for three months when we went out for gourmet coffee and French pastries, one Saturday morning when, out of the blue, it came crashing on me like a bullet train – “ _darling, pass me the cream, would you?_ ”

 “Mama, I’m in love with him.”

“I know.”

“I love him so much.”

“I know.”

“Mama, I love him so much.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

I was twenty one when I cracked the first time, and, as the make-up stained tears fell relentlessly on my face, my mother held me to her chest, slowly rocking us both and soothing me as she would have a child.

I was collapsing.

 

***

 

“ _Hey, Andy._ ”

“‘Morning, Emma. How’re you?”

“ _Great, thanks. And you?_ ”

“I’m fine, just… paperwork for a domestic abuse case. Fun times at the office.”

“ _I won’t be long then. I was talking to Tom earlier and he said he’s been trying to reach you for three days now. He was wondering if you’re picking him up from the airport next week, or–_ ”

“Give me the arrival details. I’ll be there.”

 

***

 

_Kneel._

I am down on my knees holding my head in my palms as I cry my sorrows at his feet, unable to hold back anymore.

“I fucking love you.”

I have collapsed.

I am crying at his feet, no better than them, no better than the adoring masses, broken under the weight of a love greater than I could ever manage to carry on my own. I am outside of my body, outside of palpable, outside of time. The worst has come to pass; I am now free of my burden, my self-imposed Sisyphean task. Campbell and Hiddleston have come to an end, the end of an era. Take your bows and bask in the rapt applause of your own sobs, of the ragged breaths providing barely enough oxygen for your brain to function properly.

Let him know of your love, and in telling him, you tell the world.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

“I fucking love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes: Fuck this. Fuck aaaaaaall of this, I have an exam tomorrow, I’m supposed to be studying Ancient motherfucking Greek and Formal Logic, not writing fanfiction. I am so fucked it’s not even funny anymore.
> 
> So this thing has got a second chapter, huh? I actually surprised myself, too. Was fleetingly thinking about it, but never actually considered it. 
> 
> Until today.
> 
> The day before my exams.
> 
> Clearly, this is not edited. I finished writing it literally two minutes ago.
> 
> Greetings ans best wishes to the new followers @vivalalunaa and @shalalabye (tagging is faulty as per usual). Thanks for the follow, you guys, and hope you have a fun time around here!
> 
> Ah! Sorry for the mushy ending (and by that I mean Tom’s own confession of love). This shit was so angsty and sad and depressing and all that’s unfortunate in the world, that I needed to balance it out a bit (not for the sake of the story, obv, but because I’m a goof and love romancey things :3).
> 
> Thanks for reading, lovelies, and you stay golden! *my father is making popcorn so we’re all having popcorn today*


End file.
